


the only way to measure time

by giidas



Series: i'm not sure i believe in beginnings and endings [2]
Category: Tenet (2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Established Relationship, M/M, POV Second Person, Porn with Feelings, Post-Canon, Reunion Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:47:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26326618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/giidas/pseuds/giidas
Summary: You’ll be on equal ground, after years of you having this small pocket of time hidden in a corner of your mind, of your heart, your very soul.Or, a post-Sator mission reunion.
Relationships: Neil/The Protagonist (Tenet)
Series: i'm not sure i believe in beginnings and endings [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1914220
Comments: 51
Kudos: 416





	the only way to measure time

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文-普通话 國語 available: [【授權翻譯】the only way to measure time](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26726977) by [noelle745](https://archiveofourown.org/users/noelle745/pseuds/noelle745)



> title from Jorge Luis Borges' _Being with you and not being with you is the only way I have to measure time._ inspired by [this gifset](https://giidas.tumblr.com/post/628444565977890816/iskarieot-jorge-luis-borges)
> 
> this is a spirit sequel (in the timey wimey sense where this will be a series of three stories, this is number three while engage is number one and number two has not been written yet; we be doing this Tenet style) to [engage le jeu que je le gagne](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26195998) and will make more sense if you read that one first but with some handwaving works as a stand alone

Today’s date has been on your mind for the past— you think back, trying and failing to focus your mind— too long. Too long. Ever since he left, if you’re being truthful.

Today’s date has been on your mind for years, if you’re _really_ being honest here. You’ve set it all up, your fingerprints are all over this, but you’ve left past you _some_ agency, quite a lot of it in fact, and boy, has he _not_ failed you. Leaving the last loop up to him, leaving Neil’s fate in his hands— in your younger self’s hands, was the hardest thing you’ve ever done. Yeah, you nudged him here and there and helped him with some of the more practical matters, but. _But._ You wanted him to want to save Neil. You know how important that afternoon at the hotel was, how much the feeling solidified in your stomach during the long drive. You knew you were missing something from the very first moment you saw him, and yet it wasn’t until after you saw the trinket, after he fucking told you to _let him go,_ that you realized just how much— how significant what you’ve missed has to be. Had to be. _Will_ be.

You check your watch again and know that you can count down the seconds till the truck shows up in your rearview mirror. It will be another three and a half minutes before they unload the container, before you tell him you care, like he doesn’t already know it, like you haven’t— but you _haven’t,_ not back then. You take a deep breath, hold it in, count to five, and start slowly letting it out. Your fingers are drumming a rhythm on the steering wheel and your foot is tapping out a different one on the floor. The car’s a black BMW, a nod to the one in Tallinn, the one that Neil drove so beautifully. He has a fondness for cars, an appreciation for them that you just— don’t. They get you from point A to point B, they can be pretty and they can be fast. They serve a purpose. Neil always gives you a slightly condescending look when you tell him this, like you’re missing the point. You miss that look, miss the way his eyes are always softer when he looks at you, even in condescension.

The operator of the swing lift waves an _all clear._ You close your eyes and count down the seconds it takes the team to swoop in and take them to the turnstile. Take Neil to the turnstile. You know past you sees the car, that he knows it’s you in there, _him_ in there, and you know what you felt back then, can feel the echoes of it even now, and just— can’t stomach it, to see the look on your own face. The mix of hope and desperation and misery. He understands, you’re sure. Neil loved him, but didn’t, and he knows that, _you_ knew that. He loved a version of you that technically didn’t exist yet, and now past you is faced with that version of himself: older, more knowledgeable, with the weight of time and all that it does ~~n’t~~ stand for on his shoulders. And so you close your eyes, because time has been more than kind to you, so you don’t mind him seeing your face. It’s the look in your eyes, it’s the look in his. You don’t want to see him, and you don’t want _him_ to see _you._

With five seconds left before you know Neil exits the turnstile, three after past you has been ushered off to continue his journey into the past, you open your eyes and finally get out of the car. You lean against the door, not facing the path Neil should be walking on. You have about a minute, you think, till Neil shows up.

And just the fact that you’re not certain of those two things gives you a little thrill.

You’ll be on equal ground, after years of you having this small pocket of time hidden in a corner of your mind, of your heart, your very soul.

Neil won’t have to ask you anymore, won’t have to plead, won’t have to look at you from the corner of his eye, never accusing, but always— wondering, you think might be the right word. Wondering what it is you’re still hiding, after all the time you’ve been together. Over the years, the questions tapered off, but the looks, when you were alone and quiet, have not.

You hope he’ll understand, now, why you weren’t able to tell him.

That there aren’t words that could describe what you two went through, that it had to be lived, without expectation or preconception.

You hear footsteps and force yourself to remain still, to not turn your head and face him just yet. The memory of the bandage on his forehead—

“Hey,” you hear, “you call this a warm welcome?”

You hang your head to hide your smile and then finally turn around. Neil looks like he always does, you think, but when he gets closer, there’s something in his eyes. There’s a weight to his look that wasn’t there before.

“I never promised _warm,_ ” you hear yourself say. Your eyes take in every detail of his face, from the bandage and other little almost healed cuts, to his overlong hair falling into his eyes and his chapped lips stretched into a small smile.

He tilts his head and you know you’re under the same scrutiny. His eyes pause on your shoulder and you know he’s figured out there’s a bandage under there, probably from the way you hold yourself or from the way your suit jacket doesn’t fit as perfectly as it usually does. All you get is a slightly raised eyebrow.

“I would’ve appreciated a heads up,” he says, and you cringe inwardly, just a little bit. “But I know why you couldn’t— why you didn’t.” Something softens in his eyes and your throat tightens, because you know it wasn’t fair to let him go in blind, but for all the years you’ve known him and have been in the business, you haven’t found a better way yet, a way that wouldn’t possibly irreparably change things. And this was something you were in no way willing to fuck with.

You clear your throat, look away from him for just a moment before looking back.

“You were the most important thing,” you tell him, “a touchstone, and I didn’t know how to—” you break off, trying to find the right words. Neil waits you out, his eyes not leaving yours.

“Thought that maybe if I told you, you’d act differently,” you settle on, because it’s the best you can do.

The way he looks at you— you’re transported back in time to your first meeting, to the Freeport, to the whole Sator mission. Neil, with his too knowing eyes and his too knowing smiles. You haven’t seen that look since, and you didn’t realize just how much you missed it.

Equal footing, indeed.

Neil keeps smiling his too knowing smile and then he shakes his head a little bit, looks around. His eyes widen the tiniest bit.

“Are we— ?” his voice is awed, relieved.

“Yeah,” you confirm.

“Fuck,” he says and sighs, his whole body delfating, slumping ever so closer to yours. “I was dreading a night at a hotel.”

He’s close, so close, and you know you shouldn’t, know that you’re the worst kept secret in all of Tenet and giving people more ammunition is unwise, but— you lean in anyway and bump your forehead against the top of his head. You don’t even mind the smell of disinfectant mixed with blood and dust and sweat that assaults your nose.

“No hotels,” you whisper and he hmms, hooks a finger around your pinkie. You’re so glad he’s here, whole, that your eyes sting and you have to clear your throat again just to stop yourself from getting choked up. “Let’s go.”

“Can I drive?” Neil asks, voice hopeful. You snort, can’t help it.

“No,” you say, and push him away so that you can open your door and get in. He pouts as he walks around the car. When he opens the other door, you add, “You have a head wound and still might have lingering concussion symptoms.”

“You cleared me!”

“Past me is not a doctor,” you tell him with an eyebrow raised.

Neil makes an unhappy face. “Are we going to the— “

“No,” you cut in, “we’ll go tomorrow.” You should be starting the car, you know that, but your hand finds its place on Neil’s thigh and you can’t stop _looking_ at him. He’s sitting back, legs sprawled out, head leaning back and lolling to the side so he can look his fill, too. He moves his hand over yours, running his fingers over the back of it, and you’re sure he doesn’t miss the hitch in your breathing.

“Yeah,” he says, voice languid but far from tired, “tomorrow.”

He links your fingers and you thank your past self for getting an automatic.

You drive the whole way home one handed.

—

Neil’s pressing his forehead to the back of your neck and you fumble the keys, to his great delight.

“Leave the bag here,” he tells you, tugging at it to get it off your shoulder.

“I’m not leaving it in the garage,” you protest, because you both know that it would stay there forever, the things in it forgotten. It’s happened before.

You do drop it as soon as you make your way through the door, kicking it a little further down the hallway. Neil is pressing himself to your back, his hands sneaking around your hips, splaying themselves over your stomach, but before you can lose yourself in the feeling, in the slow heat that’s spreading around in your chest, you hear the warning beeps.

“The alarm,” you remind him.

“Ugh.”

A hand leaves your stomach and you know he’s trying to twist around somehow, to reach the panel without letting you go. It makes you smile, but the beeps are getting more insistent. You turn in his hold, press him against the wall with a soft thud and reach for the panel yourself, the alarm accepting your palm print with a series of beeps confirming that it has engaged the standard safety protocols.

As soon as your hand is free, it finds its way to Neil’s hips. You bodily press him into the wall, a thigh between his, and your fingers find skin, digging into Neil’s hips.

The hiss Neil lets out is— You look up immediately and only catch the tail end of his pained expression. You push away and start undoing clasps, buttons and zippers, fingers flying over them, until the only thing Neil is wearing is a t-shirt. He lets you, hands hanging by his sides, eyes watching your every move. You lift the t-shirt just enough to reveal a nasty looking bruise on his side.

You raise both your eyebrows and press a thumb to the edge of it. A muscle in Neil’s jaw jumps as he clenches his teeth.

“It’s not that bad?” he tries. You keep looking at him and know that your expression reflects just how unimpressed you are. He drops the sheepish expression.

“I swear,” he says and raises his hand, runs his fingers over your cheek, settles them on the side of your neck. “Your shoulder?” he asks.

“Seven stitches five days ago.”

Neils makes a sympathetic face. “Itchy stage?”

You shudder a little bit because, fuck, there is little you hate more than the itchy stage.

Neil looks at you some more, fingers digging into the back of your neck, his other hand sliding to the small of your back.

“I should shower,” he says, not moving.

“Probably,” you concede, and move closer, pushing his t-shirt under his armpits, tugging until he raises his arms and lets you take it off.

“Later?” he asks, fingers scratching at the short hair on your nape.

“Yeah, sure, later, later,” you babble, because he’s here, and he’s whole, and you can finally get your hands on him in the privacy of your home.

You press closer and closer still, nudge his head back and then kiss his throat, and you can smell the dust from all the explosions on him, even after the time he’s spent in the container, mixed with blood and disinfectant and sweat.

“Ugh, stop sniffing me,” he complains, but the hand on the back of your head keeps your face pressed into his neck, just where it is. You mouth at the skin, lick it, worry it between your teeth. You can’t get enough, you can never get enough, and it doesn’t matter if he’s freshly showered or just came back from a run or like this, smelling like he survived, like he fought tooth and nail to get back to _this._ Your hands roam his bare chest and you tweak both his nipples and he squirms on your thigh. It’s been months and you want—

“Bedroom?” you manage to ask.

He shakes his head, holds you closer, one arm around your shoulders, the other moving down your back until he can get a handful of your ass.

“No, no, like this,” he says, out of breath, “like this, please—“

The rest is lost in a kiss, as you finally lean in and bite at his bottom lip. He opens up immediately and the heat in the pit of your stomach turns liquid, spreading around your body, as you lick into his mouth. He whines at the touch, his hips thrusting against yours, looking for friction, fingers scrambling at your jacket, trying to get it off. You comply with the unvoiced demand, dropping your hands from his body, letting him get your clothes off. The jacket falls to the ground, but your polo ends up pushed to just under your arms. You’re not willing to cut the kiss, not just yet, not willing to relinquish the heat of Neil’s mouth, the sounds he makes when you suck on his tongue, when you bite his lip— There’s molten lava in your veins and your cock is on its way to full hardness as you rock against him.

Neil gets it and runs his hands down your chest, scratches his short nails down the trail of hair leading down to your belt. He breaks the kiss a moment later anyway, chants _off off off_ a little too desperately as he tries and fails to get your belt undone with shaking fingers. You take his hands to steady them and lean in, press a soft kiss to his lips, his cheek, trying to calm him.

“Hey,” you say softly, “we have time.”

The noise Neil makes is almost a sob and you’d be alarmed if you weren’t on the verge of a similar one. _We have time._ You almost didn’t, you were so close to _not_ having time. For you, the whole thing took place years ago and took you months to get over, to understand, to come to terms with. For Neil? It happened basically yesterday.

He almost died, but didn’t. _You_ almost died, multiple times, but he saved you.

With the full weight of what’s between you now, the full knowledge of what would be lost to him if he _didn’t._ And past you was oblivious to it all for most of the way.

When you look at Neil, his eyes are closed and he’s breathing raggedly. You cradle his face in your hands and wait him out, keeping your bodies close, consciously slowing down your breathing. He matches you in a moment, opens his eyes soon after.

“Fuck, I— “

“Neil, hey,” he looks at you, and for the first time ever, his eyes look a little lost. It hits you like a punch in the gut, the way this has hurt him, the way it gave him a perspective and an edge you’d never want for him. You realize you would do anything to never see this look on his face again, but even turning back time would not rid him of this knowledge. You focus on what you can do for him now. Your fingers are gentle as they run through his hair and settle on the back of his neck. Your other hand finds its place over his heart.

“You did it,” you tell him, “and you blew my mind.” You pause and wait for him to absorb that, to absorb your smile, the way your eyes must soften because of everything you’re feeling. “You were beyond competent, and funny, and you kept me sane. You were everything. And the way you looked at me,” you close your eyes, because even the memory of it overwhelms you, still.

Neil runs a hand up your spine and you shiver.

“How did I look at you?” he asks.

He knows, you think, he must know, must realize that he doesn’t look at anyone else the same way he looks at you. But he’s not teasing you, you notice. And so you take a deep breath, press your foreheads together, mindful of his bandaged one, and whisper against his lips.

“Like you knew me,” you say, “and like you loved me anyway.”

You’re thankful you’re this close to him, because you rarely say the words and it feels safer, breathing them out into the small space between your lips, pressing them into his skin like they’re sacraments.

“I did,” he tells you, voice sure and steady, “I do.”

He pushes at your shoulders to get some space between you and searches your face, as if making sure that you got his point, that you really understand.

“I love you,” he repeats and then something in his posture and face shifts, loosens, and he smirks. “And you and your looks weren’t subtle either, just so you know.”

You accept the distraction and gasp in mock offence. “There’s no need for insults!”

He smiles and repeats, “I love you.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” you say, faux-dismissive, with a little roll of your eyes, and slide your hands to your own belt. “I love you but please stop talking and take your pants off,” you add in the best approximation of Neil’s ever shifting accent.

He shrugs. “I’m certainly not going to complain if you do.”

Contrary to his words, his hands catch yours and push them away. He starts on the belt himself, then the button, the zipper, and then slowly pushes your pants down, letting the weight of the belt bring them to the floor. He runs his knuckles up your happy trail, over your stomach and lets his hand settle on your ribs. The other one smacks your ass as he raises an eyebrow.

“Are we gonna dry hump or what.”

You bark out a laugh and bury your face in his neck, your shoulders shaking.

“Jesus, Neil,” you say between wheezing laughs, “way to kill the mood.”

He hums. “Well, it’s lucky that I know just how to get you going again, isn’t it.”

He presses his thigh between your legs, tilting his hips to get pressure on your cock, and then there are two hands on your ass, squeezing in suggestion of a rhythm. His breath ghosts over your ear and you shiver, that heat in the pit of your stomach returning like it never left. You bite at his clavicle and it makes him squeeze harder, fingers inching closer to your hole.

“I’m not that easy,” you say against his neck, undermining your own words by scrambling at his belt and pushing his pants and underwear down as soon as you can.

“Uh huh.”

He’s half hard as you take him in hand, trying to focus even as he bites at your earlobe. You hold his cock, watch it harden in the palm of your hand, and you listen to his ragged breathing, feel the gusts of air, warm and damp, on your neck. He finally pushes your underwear down and shifts, and you know what he wants before he even says anything.

“Your hand, your hand, please, please— “ and while there are few sounds sweeter than his begging, there’s a time and a place for that, and now’s not it. Now is going to be quick and dirty. You press closer and start a punishing rhythm, the head of your cock just under his, exactly the way he likes it. His head falls back and his fingers dig almost painfully into your ass. Blood is rushing in your ears and you don’t care how dry it is, don’t care that you’re in the hallway while there’s a perfectly comfortable bed upstairs, the only thing you care about is Neil and the noises he makes and the way he trembles under your hands. Biting kisses up his neck, you relish in the way he responds to you, the way his pleasure heightens yours. A nudge at his jawline has him turning his head and the kiss that follows is tongues and teeth and heat and gasping breaths, and all the while your hand keeps its punishing speed and Neil’s fingers keep squeezing, inching closer to where you always always always want them. Neil whines and his hips try to press off the wall and you push him against it harder, immobilising him as well as you can.

“I need— I need—“ he babbles, his hands are scrambling at your back before one squeezes at the back of your neck and the other scratches down your spine, settling on your ass again. You slow your hand, the last thing he wants, the last thing you both want, and give him a slow sweet kiss, tongue gently teasing his, and then you press your thumb into his slit and his whole body seizes and he whines and it shocks you, every time, just how much you love him like this, under your hands, at the edge of oblivion.

“I know, I know what you need, Neil,” you tell him, keeping your voice gentle, watching the way goosebumps travel down his neck as you breathe against his ear. You keep playing with his slit, fingers careful on the head of his cock and he keeps shivering, his hips jerking convulsively. You take mercy on him, and on yourself, and take you both in hand again, squeezing your fingers to make it tight, and then you hold still and whisper, “Come on, Neil, make us come.”

He groans and starts thrusting, movements limited by your body and the wall, but he’s soon using the hand on your ass to help, getting a rhythm going, and then all you can do is clutch at him with your free hand, hold him as close as possible, your eyes squeezed shut, your blood roaring, his grunts and soft whines the only thing you can hear. You’re so close, so close you can taste it, the fire in your veins all consuming, your brain filled with static. Your muscles tense in anticipation, and Neil recognizes it of course and then his hand shifts on your ass and the tip of his finger puts pressure on your hole and the head of his cock nudges yours just right and—

Your grip is too tight for a second or two, your muscles locked, your hips jerking, your lungs frozen, eyes unseeing and then everything rushes back and your hand is in Neil’s hair pulling pulling pulling and Neil’s cock is sliding against yours, everything’s slippery with your come, the air full of sex and sweat and your skin is tingling with it, your blood still roaring, and the aftershocks are so much more delicious with Neil still thrusting, still hanging on. His head is tilted back because of the way you’re pulling his hair, his neck bared for you like an offering, and you know just what he needs.

You lean in, lick up his neck, bite at his jawline.

“C’mon,” you whisper, “I wanna taste your come— “ Neil whines “ — I wanna lick you open and fuck you with my tongue.”

Neil makes a hurt sound, fingers digging into the back of your neck so hard you’re sure there’ll be marks, and comes all over your hand and stomach.

“ _Fuck,_ ” he says emphatically.

You wait for his eyes to open and once he’s watching, bring your hand to your mouth and lick your fingers. His eyes eat you up and the moment your fingers leave your mouth, he’s on you, tasting you both on your tongue and moaning when your stained hand finds its way to his ass, fingers spreading the come over his hole.

You’re both breathing hard as you separate and Neil is squirming from the pressure of two fingers. You don’t let up though, want him again, want him always, more than ready to finger him open right here, to push him down and spread him open— He bats at your arm weakly.

“Shower,” he says, “and then bedroom.”

“You’re sure? I could—“

“Shower, bedroom,” he cuts you off and repeats, and kisses the smirk from your face.

When you lean back and settle your hands on his hips, his eyes are soft and his expression open, everything laid out, for your eyes only.

You think _I love you,_ and hope he can read you as well as you think.

“See,” Neil says, “told you, you and your looks are not subtle either.”

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading <3 comments and kudos give me a dose of serotonin, so if you have something to say, don't hesitate! and if you wanna scream about these two, hit me up on [twitter](https://twitter.com/giidass) or [tumblr](https://giidas.tumblr.com/)


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